To Be Seen
by Don't touch my Seaweed Brain
Summary: As he walked away, resolved, John Winchester didn't look back to hear the screams of the black and white boy across the dark, dark halls. He couldn't look back, not like that, not at his son, not at the new experiment. AU. Rating because of Language and content.


**Summary: As he walked away, resolved, John Winchester didn't look back to hear the screams of the black and white boy across the dark, dark halls. He couldn't look back, not like that, not at his son, not at the new experiment.**

**K, so I'm back. I'm sorry to my PJO fandom, but I promise that ISHBM is coming to an end in a few short weeks. U guys can handle that right? I've been on a pretty much 3 month hiatus due to lack of inspiration, and my joining of the SuperWhoLock fandom. I do have a Sherlock fic coming up as well. **

**If you want an explanation over the AU, than feel free to PM me, though it will be explained later, so if you want to be spoiled write a review or a PM. **

**Enjoy!**

The room smelled like alcohol, like that hospital medicine that you can never seem to get away from, not here. Everything was black, not like when your eyes were closed, because then, you could still see the faint imprints of those star-struck lights, all the colors spinning in pretty patterns-no, this was the pitch black of _the room._ For years, he had seen people disappear off the streets, not the curling, whispy teleportation that everyone could afford, the ones that everyone, even the upper class in their bright colors. He whimpered softly, knew he did, but he couldn't hear it, couldn't hear anything. He missed the colors, the bright, bright blue of the sky, and the leather coat, it's fabric a soft, cracked brownish-tan, that his brother wore every day. Every day. Those were the only colors they let him see, the ones he had chosen to see. They didn't know he could see more than that, they could never know about the curling eyes, and shapes he saw behind his eyes when the lights went out. They were never supposed to know that he could see the jaded green of Dean's eyes, that he had seen the fire, the orange and yellow flames reflected back in Azazel's eyes.

He whimpered again, even though he knew now that he wouldn't be able to hear it, because this, this was an eight-year-old child, wise beyond his years, knowing that they knew who he was, and what he could do. Knew that they couldn't control him, and knew that he was what the rebellion needed.

And this eight-year-old boy, this child, knew that he was going to die alone. Dark. Cold.

And soundless. No one would miss him, no one would _know._

And almost worse, know one would care.

Except he didn't. He was still alive.

He sat, waiting. He knew he was going to die, had made peace with that fact. But why couldn't they _just do it!_

* * *

He felt the slow burn of the alcohol as it made it's way down his throat, grimacing at the taste. Even after all this time, he'd never gotten quite used to the vanilla-oak taste of the aged Bourbon. No, it was too sweet. Much too sweet.

He set his tumbler down, and went to watch Sam Winchester down in room 3BC. It was regrettable, it really was. The child had gotten a perfect score on the SATs. He was dumbfounded that that had ever been used as a high school level test. These children, they were all prodigies, or they were defected. Sam Winchester had earned the title, but he had not earned the right to see. He frowned; they still had cases like that, though they were rarer everyday. He looked through the clear, glass, observation window, watching as tears streamed down his cheeks through the blindfold. Watching him was hard; they almost never had to do this to children. Most of the children knew how to hide it, knew that if they were caught, they'd be dead. This boy, staring at everything, asking so many questions, so smart, too smart, and not smart enough at the same time. He regretted this, regretted killing this child when all that he was doing was seeing, like that had all used to do, before the Apocalypse, before Lucifer had taken everything from them, and made them earn it. They couldn't prevent the Hunter's children, couldn't prevent the Prophets. But the Humans, the mere mortals that the Angels were still trying to save, them, them they could do something about. And this was what they could start with.

As he walked away, resolved, John Winchester didn't look back to hear the screams of the black and white boy across the dark, dark halls. He couldn't look back, not like that, not at his son, not at the new experiment


End file.
